Samhain Shenanigans: The Adventures of Benjamin Baxter, #2

By Ezekiel James Boston

After the strange events on his birthday, Benjamin Baxter finds his magic growing at an alarming rate. With the surge, the dark energy within becomes even harder to control.

 

Wanting to relax, Ben takes his school faire winnings to the local Samhain festival to unwind. However, to get to the fair, Ben has to face an old bully and his gang.

 

The night goes from bad to worse when Ben's orcs call him back to Meadows Towing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elsewhere Publishing
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781625380500

Book preview

Chapter One

Samhain Shenanigans

Benjamin Baxter took a deep inhalation. Even though the large starwise only parking lots were full, the distinct Samhain Festival buttered popcorn smell extended all the way out into starwise overflow parking amongst the mundanes—the magic-less.

He licked his lips, and flipped the switch to close his coverable top.

Thrilled cheers rose in the distance. A round of faint applause chased it across the parking lot. Wondering what trick had been performed, Ben turned his attention toward the lit entrance so far away beyond rows and rows of cars.

Hoping to catch some remnant of the prestige, his gaze crawled along the Ferris Wheel, the Thompson Twister, The Screaming Meemie, and the various tents that filled the span between the rides.

Nothing. He snapped his fingers at missing it. Well, they’ll be more performances. That’s for sure.

The simple red, white, and dark lights of the festival held his interest in a way that the millions of Las Vegas casino lights blinking for attention never could. Only the click, click, click of his closed convertible top gear over cranking pulled him from the momentary entrancement.

One of the largest gatherings for Samhain Shenanigans in the country, the festival pulled every student from the Vegas Valley and thousands of students from schools from nearby prefectures.

With all the practitioners here, I shouldn’t be surprised that starwise parking is stuffed. Ben took a moment to center his red Archon Private Academy tie and got out of the car. He put on his tan A. P. A. trench coat to cover the huge star belt buckle of his Meadows Towing Might-Fist belt, and buttoned it closed.

He dusted one shoulder and then the other to activate a minor prestidigitation. A swift breeze whooshed down his body as the wrinkles in his clothes flattened out.

His mind went back to the popcorn. Every year, since he had the free first-year’s serving, he wanted to get a bag, but had always opted for a hot pretzel, garlic cheese knots, or cotton candy.

Not this year.

This year he had a plan.

He’d do a few games to fill his pockets with prizes before grabbing a bag of the buttery good stuff and casually munch on it as he strolled through the festival. Then he’d return each of following nights through Halloween for more games and treats.

The keyword for this year’s festival? Moderation. Slow and steady fun. Prolong the experience. Tonight would be great. Each night would be great so long as he stuck to his plan.

An odd tingling—magic—settled across his brow. A nearly overwhelming urge to take off his tie and leave it on his windshield washed over him and faded.

Ben scanned to find the source.

Two girls in Sunrise Mountain orange blazers, white blouses, and orange-and-white plaid skirts focused on him. One, dark haired, sported long pigtails. The other, a blonde, had her hair cut short like a pixie. Later than Ben to the first-night events, they’d had to park even further out in the mundane lot.

The brunette didn’t have the thin orange tie to complete her school uniform. She locked eyes with him and moved to get closer.

Bastion—the monster locked away in Ben’s head—roared and slammed into his temples. The beast tried to force its way through the bond that linked him and the monster together. It wanted to tear the girls apart.

Ben set his will against Bastion and wondered if he had been wearing one of the red, white, and black Samhain Shenanigans-logoed armbands to partake in the evening’s school-pride scavenger hunt, would he still have been able to resist the girls’ spell?

Bastion knocked around his head.

Denying the beast’s horrible desire to materialize proved taxing. Ben gave a strained smile and frequent grimaces broke his grin. Sorry, girls. He patted the part of his arm where the participation band would have been if he were in play. But I’m not in on The Shenanigans.

The brunette gracefully slid to close on him.

Ben backed away.

She gave a momentary pout before flashing a flawless smile. Can I have your tie anyway?

He shrugged. It wouldn’t be worth any points.

Temptation dripped from her playful lips as her tongue ran between them. Can’t you imagine me with your tie on?

The magical tingling on his brow came back strong before fading out again.

A vision of a girl wearing his school uniform came to mind, but not the temptress in front of him. In his vision, Penelope stood in Pepperjacks with his trench coat on. A sole lower button held it closed. Besides his tie, he didn’t know what else she had on under the coat, but wanted to find out.

Bastion slammed his temples again.

Ben grimaced. He stopped nodding to his imagination and switched to shake his head. No. No, sorry.

This time, her pout stuck and her blonde friend pulled her away. Let’s get to the big top. She gave Ben a playful sneer, the kind that causes those cute little nose wrinkles. "We’re bound to find friendly casters there."

Even as she was being dragged away, the brunette steepened her hands and lipped, Please.

Ben gave a regretful smile.

She turned and fell in stride with her friend. Their skirts swung in unison for a few seconds.

The tie and trench coat vision flashed again. It had been almost a month since his run-in with Penelope. Ever since then, the hot, raven-haired beauty from the other side had become a constant in his dreams. Except for this recent vision, the Dream-Penelope still wore burlap. The bruises and scabs were healed, but her cutting blue eyes kept their edge.

He hadn’t even notice the color of the Sunrise girl’s eyes.

Faintly, Ben registered people yelling. He almost turned, but continued to the fairgrounds. Penelope crawled back into his mind and he focused on the memory. What had she worn after changing out of the makeshift bag-dress at Pepperjacks?

Reimagining her running for her life, a scaled hand closing in on her long, dark, trailing hair. Again, her intense blue eyes stole his focus.

Bastion bounded around Ben’s head. The beast whipped the black Nilosian energy there into a whirlpool which flash-flooded the vision away.

Annoyed, Ben snapped out loud at the creature in his head, What?

They didn’t actually share a language. Bastion felt primal. It probably wasn’t even capable of words. The only time they had any form of communication was during the combat with the ogre magi, when Bastion motioned to Ben before pulling him in.

Ben stiffened. Bastion only reacted to combat.

From a ways behind him, a vaguely familiar voice called, Yeah, we’re talking to you!

Ahead, the girls dropped their playful walk and sprinted toward the carnival entrance.

Undaunted, Ben turned. He registered three bodies in hoodies—Dunn-Blatt or Clark casters—beyond three small, snapping green energy hooks shooting at him. Each hook trailed a wisp of emerald power back to one of the three hooded casters.

He dodged one.

The green hook flew past him. The faint line of energy dissipated.

Ben twisted. Too late.

The other hooks hit him in the center of his chest.

The faint lines of energy—challenge tethers—shone brilliantly as they twisted, strengthened, and locked Ben into a magic duel.

Chapter Two

Hooked

Ambient dimensional energy flowed into the fetters binding Ben to the challengers. Not a valid target for the night’s game, Ben didn’t struggle for the dominant caster’s advantage. Instead he focused on the subtle rush that came with being in a duel.

Just under his skin, the hook dissipated when the emerald strands solidified and thrummed as though some great entity strummed to test the sound. A heightened sense of awareness—the rush of air bringing intoxicating scents from the food court, distinct clacks of the Bull Dog speed coaster carts being tugged up toward the first summit, that vague knowledge that nearby, other wills were pitted against each other—came to him.

Ben rubbed the growing heat in his chest. The feeling spread into his hand. He stroked his neck and, like a topical cream, the warmth spread there, too.

Neither challenger noticed his lack of a participation band. The two hooded casters had turned toward one another and, in unison, said, Let go.

Ben had watched Jameson Brown’s exit interview when the World Dueling Federation forced him out for not having won any of his first twenty-five professional matches. When the interviewer had asked Brown why he kept competing instead of quitting from embarrassment, he bounced in place like a jacked-up aureole addict. The better the competitor, the better the buzz.

As though plugged into the world, Ben finally understood. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Bastion had relaxed. Why?

The shorter one pushed the other. His voice an angry squeak. He’s mine!

The last thing to come to Ben through the tethers, the challengers’ intent. Ben found himself become even more nonchalant about being hooked. These two were at war with each other. Being connected to both, Ben could feel the deep-seated disdain between them.

This play for perceived power further unfurled as the taller guy pushed the smaller one back. Let go.

From the voice, the taller caster had been the one who called out to him. Ben shook his head. Both were so petty and desperate to scavenge for Samhain Shenanigan items.

The smaller guy pointed to the tether in his chest. It pulsed a pale, neon green. My hook hit first!

The taller one grabbed the other by the collar. Let. Go. He shook the smaller boy hard in time with each word.

Ben had been hooked for the first time three years ago when he’d just turned thirteen and had to take Adept Love’s Intro to Dueling class. Malcolm—a bully—whose birthday fell nine months earlier, had tethered him. The hook felt like a real fishhook forced into his skin. Though there wasn’t any blood, the pain burrowed cruelly up his arm before tearing to the center of his chest. Ben had dropped to a knee and struggled to keep from tearing up. Nothing would’ve been more embarrassing than crying on his first day of Dueling.

Before Adept Love had made it over to them, Malcolm had towered over him, mumbling insults about Ben losing his birthday gifts from the school and calling him a baby for crying, even though he had successfully held back the tears.

The taller boy jammed his knee into the smaller one’s crotch.

The smaller boy collapse, but clung to the tether.

If being hooked would always remind Ben of Malcolm, he’d have to do something extreme to change it. But what?

Ben had often wanted to get back at Malcolm, and had formed several plans, but the bully had been kicked out of the Archon Private Academy. The faculty didn’t say why, but since Malcolm often hooked sixth and seventh graders, it had to be for conduct unbecoming of an enlightened individual.

The tether from the small guy faded away.

Competition between them done, the intent of the guy with the remaining fetter came through clear. He wanted to do permanent damage and take as many scavenger hunt items as he could instead of obeying the mandatory limit of one per duel.

Though not a part of the multi-school event, Ben loathed bullies. He walked down the tether toward the hooded figure towering over the one on the ground. Closer, the purple and black of hooded zip-ups became apparent. Dunn-Blatts.

The victor flexed over the downed one and had been speaking softly. He spun to face Ben. Give up four items, Ape, or I’ll break you and take your car.

That snide tone. No way. Ben leaned to the side to see into the dark hood. Magical shadows kept the face in darkness. Ben’s throat constricted with growing rage. Malcolm?

The tall boy pulled the hood back. Baby Ben! The magical darkness around the face vanished. Much taller and skinnier now, that same aggravatingly smug smile still haunted Malcolm’s stupid face. Do you still cry when hooked? He chuckled and pointed. Look, boys, I think I see tears starting.

Ben’s fist balled. A primitive desire—smash that hooked nose—went through him. His muscles tightened. The direction of power through the fetter between them changed. Energy flowed in Ben’s favor. To assure every iota of his anger would be felt, he projected his menace through the tether. We’ve a score to settle.

That only add fuel to Malcolm’s smugness. Oh. Malcolm glanced to Ben’s arm, where the Samhain Shenanigan’s band should have been. You aren’t in the hunt?

As the one challenged, it was up to Ben if he wanted to end the duel. Adept Love had chirped endlessly about that rule and, by Ben’s count, he had three years of anger and two fonts of magic to unleash on the bully.

He held tight. You’re not getting off that easy!

Malcolm blew him a kiss then extended his hands palms up. As if cued to the motion, two mystic whirlwinds appeared.

One next to him.

One next to Malcolm.

The swirling vortexes siphoned power from their tether. Wind flapped loose, dull gray robes, signaling the imminent arrival of Primaries.

No! Ben opened his Argosian font to try and blast Malcolm with pure power, but his energy drained off to the forth-coming Lesser Judges without so much of a flash of color. He closed his font.

Hoods drawn, both appeared in the thick official robes of the Las Vegas Magistrates. Each teleported into being with their two feet long battle rods—the true symbol of their power—at the ready.

The tips of their batons crackled with red energy as the two dour Argosian men scanned the area for greater trouble.

A third set of robes flapped. In an instant, the wearer materialized. She wore the same dull gray uniform, but her rod hummed with orange Vibrosian energy. Without taking time to appraise the situation, she demanded, What is going on here?

The third Dunn-Blatt—Ben had forgotten about him—helped the one Malcolm kneed to his feet. The three of them kept silent.

Ben struggled to keep a civil tongue and found himself at a lack of words. Anything he might say would be hash and pointed at Malcolm. His personal limit met, Ben kept his mouth shut. Actions could be explained away. Words could be quoted, and if he opened his mouth, he’d only regret it when the grey-robed Magistrates reported it to the head of his school.

The vibrant orange glow on the tip of the baton dimmed. She gripped it with her free hand and looked them over. Junior Apprentice? Bravados?

Malcolm tried to loosen the hook.

Holding it tight, Ben rocked with the small mystic tug in his chest.

Malcolm said, A simple misunderstanding, Primaries. He shot Ben a be cool wink—as though things could ever be cool between them—and gave another tug. I, along with my Junior Bravados, thought this A. P. A. student was in on The Shenanigans.

Ben shook his head slightly and held the tether.

Malcolm tugged again and narrowed his eyes. It’s become obvious. He isn’t.

You do not have an armband, Junior Apprentice. The Vibrosian Primary pointed her battle rod at Ben. Release the Dunn-Blatt or risk censure.

Wishing the fetter would whip to slap Malcolm across the face, Ben relaxed his will and muscles. The hook came free. Without flair, the tether between them dissipated.

Malcolm’s hand stashed something into his pocket. Probably his tether totem.

Ben’s jaw tightened. Was the totem still the same rusty nail Malcolm had used to hook him years ago?

Smiling at Ben’s building anger, Malcolm rubbed his hair opposite the Magistrates with his fingers crossed. He gave a small laugh. Sorry about that, friend.

The energy faded from the Primaries’ battle rods. The two Argosian Primaries spun a quick circle. Air sucked from where they were headed, their gray robes flapped a cotton candy smell before they teleported. Small pink and pale emerald dust devils swirled together in the lot where they once stood.

The Vibrosian Primary turned to Malcolm. Be careful where you throw your hook, Bravado.

Yeah. Ben did not want to say anything, but found his mouth echoing the Magistrate as he continued to stare at Malcolm. "Be careful."

She pointed her rod at Ben as an unspoken warning. Behave, it said.

He continued to stare at Malcolm and a light thumping in his head—Bastion—urged him on.

The Magistrate angled her wrist back and directed it at Ben a second time. Another unspoken warning. You are not behaving. An orange glyph lit the tip. Look elsewhere, Junior Apprentice.

Ben looked up into the night sky. The light pollution from the casinos stole the grandeur. He focused on the North Star, wishing he could call it down to slam Malcolm deep into the earth.

She said, Now, to the fairgrounds, you three. Be vigilant. Have fun.

Holding his position, Ben felt them walk past.

The first one, the tallest—Malcolm—bumped his shoulder as he passed, whispering something too low for him to catch, but what Ben thought had been said—lucky baby—burned in his ears and sent Bastion tromping its rage through his head. Ben struggled to find his center.

As much as he wanted to go at Malcolm, he had to keep his cool lest the Primary ban him from this season’s festival. Still, his rage continued to build...

Chapter Three

Useless Words

A distant roar of excitement rolled from the fairgrounds. Though curious, Ben ignored it and let his eyes wander from the North Star through the rest of the Little Dipper. Having birthmarks in a similar pattern on his face, spanning from one cheek to the other, Ben always thought of it has his constellation. The fading smell of cotton candy piqued his desire to get onto the fairgrounds again, but he had to wait for the—high and mighty, power-tripping—Magistrate to excuse him.

She finally snapped her fingers for his attention.

As he supposed, unless he wanted to be booted and be in trouble when the next school eighth began, Ben faced her and granted immediate eye contact.

Vibrosian energy flooded her eyes.

Ben looked into her orange orbs. He’d only seen one other caster—Ur-Krurk—do this when the ogre magi wanted to blast him to bits. Could this protector, one of Las Vegas’s